Færuin

Aftermath

14

AUG/13

Game of Crowns

Training Daze

Remaining in King’s Landing for a short while, Hal, Earl of Richmœnd, managed to find who he was looking for: someone to teach him how to wield a lance properly. (Despite the fact he had won the event sans skills!) Frotha the mæster scoured the remnants of the conclave conference for colleagues of the healing arts. He was successful, he soon took off to The Citadel in Old Town. “See you back at base in six-months.”, said he, off on his travels.

The Squire Ulæth also managed to find someone to train him in the use of the axe. He and Hal discovered an animal trainer which they took with them. The Royal entourage headed back to their homeland to overwinter. The journey back was uneventful.

Upon our triumphant return Orion’s drizzling look cast a dank and humid scene. The town seemed deserted. En route to the castle the rain steadily poured. Hal’s horse Chevalier became spooked at something, throwing Henry from the saddle straight into a muddy puddle. His mood further soured, heavens conspired his overthrow. No-one offered to help him up, so foul a humour was Henry possessēd in momentarily. Alas, the team entered the great hall. “Hello? Is anyone home? Father?” His enquiry was met with n’owt but an echo, silence. Ulæth looked quizzically at his lord’s brother, Hal. The silence was disturbing.

Suddenly the tapestries were flung back and a host of silhouetted shadowy figures appeared. Hal reached for the hilt of his axe. Ambush?

Music played and King Martyn appeared greeting the heroes. Festivities began and celebrations were enjoyed. “All hail the hero of the tournament!” “Thank you father. Please, ’twas you that bought me my first blade, and taught me all I know. I won the sport of kings for the kudos of our honourable house, because God is on our side.”

The celebrations came to a close as swiftly as they had begun, as Hal and Ulæth soon concentrated on the day-to-day affairs of running their Royal household. [In game terms: we sunk several grand goldragons into improving the Kingdom. We initially increased Defence and Population slightly, but mostly pumped it into Power, Law and Lands.]

One drizzling morning a herald reported the sound of a bugle. “Travellers approach, flying the banners from the Royal house of Rhymehall!” They sought an audience with King Martyn, and were admitted entrance into the Keep. Introducing himself, the young (19) Sir Gerald Orliche, heir to the neighbouring throne of Rhymehall offered his sister’s hand in marriage. The Lady Reign ended up marrying Ulæth, the dowry of a grand in gold was accepted, the occasion was to be hosted by house Richmœnd at the insistence of King Martyn. Plans for the event were made. Most everyone gave their blessing to this upcoming solemn wedding of two squires of equal station. (Lady Reign is merely second in line to the throne).

From a magic Skype-stone Baron Brendon beamed in illusory and ethereal, from a large lit slender slab of alabaster stone. A guard frapped at his bed chamber door, “Sire, someone is here to see you. A lady. She awaits your presence at the fortress gates m’lord.” “Very well, I shall see her presently.” Muttering under his breath, “It better not be Iris.”, whilst getting dressed, lo and behold, it was Iris.

The Lady looked forlorn, bruised, her rag-like clothes torn, fraying and flailing in the wind. Her face was smeared with a little dirt, and she had evidently been weeping of late. Brendon wore a stoic look about him, “What do you want?” “Orton Lugus killed my brother, then he himself died. I need your help, as I have nowhere to stay.” “Why did you betray me and my family?” “Orton had me under duress, he threatened to kill me if I did not do his bidding.” After a thoughtful pause, Brendon took pity on her, “You may stop in the stables tonight, while I think about it.” “A place midst warm hay somewhere dry is surely better than the roadside ditch I spent the night in yesterday evening.” Her face seemed to brighten, if only a little. Brendon ordered a guard, “Get her cleaned up and make sure she is fed. I want a good eye kept on her, making sure she is safe in the stables and does not go anywhere without my permission.”

The daze flew by, hazy, lazily; we were in celebratory mode, all that was, apart from Frotha. He was miles away, in Old Town, learning about shapes and colours, with his partner pedagogue: developmental. Far-out.

Meanwhile, back in the Kingdom of Richmœnd, the marriage celebrations got underway. Lady Reign adorned in a cream coloured dress, woven with gold knotting, a tiara of flowers and acorns crowned her long straight auburn hair. Confetti flew, the happy couple kissed beneath the sacrēd white-wood tree and tied the knot, in accordance with the old ways: hand-fasting yet more permanent. Squire Ulæth, attired in immaculate white, ’neath the noons high bright sunlight, danced with his newly wed beloved, to the sweetest most delightful melody: to be… in love. Truly.

Though she be but four years and ten, with the young esquire husband but nineteen, in these mediæval times, when it came to dynastic ties of alliance, ’twas the usual order of the day.

Trailing back from God’s wood, the happy couple were followed by a whole host of crowds and onlookers, wishing the newly wed couple well; for most part.

Therein, lay a key problem for the team. Demographics. On such a slender stretch of land, lay so many people. In the weeks that had past, an influx of flutson and jetson from neighbouring territories had drifted towards newly founded Brendonia wishing to partake in its prosperity. Waves of travellers, families of wandering countenance flooded in to Richmœnd Royal lands, and to the freshly founded settlement of Brendonton. With the call for craftsmen and women, the word put out erstwhile for skilled artisans to be invited to settle hereabouts, to help build the city and castle. Such matters of state seemed far away from mind as the people and princes enjoyed the banquet. Back from his travels, Frotha clinkeda silver spoon against his crystal goblet, “Speech! Speech!”

Some weird tradition happened where everybody gets naked. I’m hazy on the details.

Back to affairs of statecraft, the team had to focus on how best to develop their regal family realm. Ulæth recommended more agriculture. Hal concurred. The grain, fowl and legume would sustain the swelling people of Brendonia, ’twas a logical step. Frotha suggested an increase on defence first off. After which, motioning on investing in real-estate. He acted to increase our lands, buying up tracts of Dannet country. Yet, still having to pay homage to their rival house. Offering coin, to boot.

Acting on Baron Brendon’s sage council, brother Hal used his acumen to double effect, by channeling all available regency resource into influence, thereby restoring the lost standing in status we hath endured since the offset of the campaign. (The old grudge set against us for a past misdemeanour we’d become involved in, both brothers instigated, during character creation). Our good name was restored. With that, accompanied fortune and glory.

We set in motion the building of a shining city: Brendonia. Built, near the family Keep turned fully-fledged castle: Har’castle Craggs. Near Brendonton (known locally as just Brenton). Anyhow, further developments were made.

A shroud of darkness then fell on the session. The GM changed the rules, on a whim, putting a bad vibe on the whole game. Instead of letting the players choose what to spend their boons on, they must now be rolled randomly. We now have no control over how our nation develops excepting on a chance roll of some other event. We rolled ‘wealth increase’ and ‘lands’. This is such BS. We now officially have no control over how or what to develop our country, by way of boons. Hal steps down as regent if this rule is enforced (next session). Living in peace on a farmstead, in early retirement with his grand goldragon nest egg, as a simple citizen, taking no further part in politics. Transferrence of the investiture is to be handed over to brother Brendon, should this contingiency course of events transpire. (i.e. should the nonsensical ‘randomised Kingdom management house rule’ be enforced). On that note: